


Many (Many, Many) Happy Returns

by equestrianstatue



Category: Being Human (UK)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-28
Updated: 2014-01-28
Packaged: 2018-01-10 10:11:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1158391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/equestrianstatue/pseuds/equestrianstatue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the big one-two-one for Mitchell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Many (Many, Many) Happy Returns

**Author's Note:**

> If it makes any difference (not really), this was written off the back of the casting in the UK pilot.
> 
> First posted in March 2008.

"Guess how old I am," says Mitchell, one day.

"Why?" says George, through a biscuit.

"Guess."

"A hundred," shrugs George; Mitchell shakes his head. "All right, two hundred. Three hundred, four hundred, five – "

"No, that's just being stupid."

"You're the one who wants me to guess your age. Based on nothing at all."

"A hundred was closest."

"Fine. A hundred and ten."

"Warmer."

"A hundred and twenty."

"Ooh, you're burning – "

"A hundred and twenty-five. Four. Three. Two. One?"

"Yes," says Mitchell, with an air of vague satisfaction, and stretches his arms out above his head, lacing his fingers together, palms towards the ceiling. "Today," he adds, as something of an afterthought.

"What?"

"A hundred and twenty-one," murmurs Mitchell. "Not a very round number. Or a very interesting one. One-two-one. Palindromic, I suppose. I prefer triple figures." He scratches the back of his head. "Six-six-six will be sort of fun, I imagine. And I quite liked sixty-nine."

"Oh my god," says George, "why didn't you say something?"

"I just did. I said loads of things, actually."

"Why didn't you say something _before_ the day? Before – " he checks his watch – "before ten past eleven at night? Oh, look, what am I supposed to do now?"

"Nothing," says Mitchell, slightly surprised. "No, really. I just thought I'd mention it."

George spreads his hands in a way that, from anyone else, might be described as 'theatrically', but from George is faintly understated. "Don't be ridiculous! Why didn't you say? Even if you'd only mentioned it last night, I could've done something, made a cake – "

"Relax," says Mitchell. "Seriously. I don't really like cake."

"What is _wrong_ with you?" says George, caught somewhere between genuine distress and shock.

"Have you got an hour?"

"I never wanted to ask," says George, still a little fraught. "I thought maybe it was insensitive, I wasn't sure if you still – kept the same birthday, or, I don't know, took it from when you were – I don't know."

Mitchell fiddles languidly with his thumbnail. "No, no, you're right. I sort of have two birthdays – well. A birthday and a deathday, I suppose. A semi-deathday, maybe."

"So, is this your _birthday_ birthday, or your... not-exactly-deathday birthday?"

"Birthday birthday," says Mitchell. "A hundred and twenty-one years to the day since I was dragged into the world. Nobody realised quite how long they were dragging me into it for, presumably."

"Do you, er, celebrate them both?"

"I don't usually celebrate either, to be honest."

"Well, if you don't tell anybody until they're nearly bloody over, I'm not surprised." George's facial expression is along the lines of righteous indignation, which strikes him as perhaps not quite the most appropriate response, but he decides there is no time to rearrange it. "Wait there."

"Where are you going?" Mitchell doesn't move his feet, letting George wriggle out from underneath and watching as he marches to the living room door.

"To get Annie."

"Oh, no, don't," says Mitchell, and lets his head drop, with a soft skull-meets-cushion sort of noise, against the back of the sofa. "She's asleep, and it's really not important – it's not that much of a novelty any more, to be honest – "

"She spent today descaling the kettle and ploughing further through the Mills & Boon shelf in the loft; her day couldn't physically have been any less strenuous," counters George. "I don't even know if she really sleeps." And with that, he disappears.

Mitchell rolls his eyes and chews his lip for a few minutes, listening to George's hurried thump-thump-thump up the stairs, the creak of the box-room door opening and closing, distorted voices from overhead. George tumbles back into the living room, eventually, Annie in tow, her mouth an excited little 'o'.

"Mitchell! You should have _said_ – "

"George and I did this bit already," says Mitchell. "Honestly, after it's happened a hundred and twenty times, it's about a hundred and twenty times less exciting."

"What's the time?" says Annie, ignoring him. "We could pop out to that late-night petrol station round the corner, they've usually got a couple of birthday cakes shoved in next to the Swiss rolls. Children's ones, probably, mind, but it's better than nothing – "

"He doesn't like cake," interrupts George, raising his eyebrows. "Apparently."

Annie stops mid-sentence and pulls a face. "Who doesn't like _cake_?"

Mitchell inclines his head and raises his hand.

Annie sighs. "Shall I make us a cup of tea?"

"You'll do it anyway," says George, resignedly.

*

"Right," says Mitchell, a week later, pulling on his jacket, "see you in the morning, mortal."

George pokes his head round the door from the kitchen, glasses slightly askew. "Are you off to the hospital?"

"Graveyard shift, as it were, every Monday and Thursday. You've memorised both our timetables with a colour code in your head, surely."

"Ah," says George, a smile tugging at the edge of his mouth, "not today."

"Your visual memory's out of coloured ink?" shrugs Mitchell.

"No, it's fine, thank you." George pushes his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. "But you're not on tonight. Dave's covering for you."

"Oh," says Mitchell, a little nonplussed; and then, slightly more helpfully, "Why?"

"Because I'm doing his night shift tomorrow instead."

Mitchell scratches his chin. "Keep going."

The grin George has been dismally failing to suppress breaks across his face entirely. "I'm taking you out," he announces, triumphantly, "for a nice meal."

"Oh," says Mitchell, again, with rather more surprise. "Erm, why?"

"You're a hundred and twenty-one," says George. "And seven days."

"Oh, yes," says Mitchell, as if recalling something unimportant from a years-old, worn-out memory. "So I am. I mean, thanks."

"Pleasure," says George, with no hint of pretence. "Let me get my coat."

It's a cold, brisk walk, ten minutes into town and five minutes across it to the slightly more up-market end. George refuses to say where they're going ("I'd put a blindfold on you, but it's dark, and my eyes aren't brilliant as it is, so it would all be rather impractical,") although Mitchell asks him at regular intervals anyway, just for the sake of it, really, rather than actually believing he'll catch him out.

They're dressed the wrong way round, George thinks. He's wrapped up warm, coat done up to the top button, scarf tucked in neatly; but Mitchell, dark-glasses-wearing, black-hatted, suncream-plastered Mitchell, has his jacket open, hair ruffled by the wind, the top buttons of his shirt undone, even. George isn't entirely sure of the relationship between vampires and air temperature, but since Mitchell seems to be as aglow with heat right now as he's ever going to be, he assumes it's not quite the same as the one between air temperature and humans. Other humans.

"Hang on," says Mitchell, "what about Annie?"

George's smile fades very slightly. "She can't come out this far, you know. Yet, anyway," he adds, hopefully. "We, er, we planned it all, and she thought she still didn't fancy going much further than the pub. I said, we could go to the place a couple of doors along from it, the Indian place. Oh, no, she said, it's horrible there, they've got rats in the kitchens, she reckons; you two go for the meal, she said, go somewhere proper and that, and she'll be ready with the hot beverages when we get back. There's always next year, she said, since she's not going anywhere fast, and neither's he. I mean, you. And she wouldn't even be eating, anyway, she said, not that she doubted we could eat her food as well, but I think she was just trying to make sure I didn't feel bad." George takes a rather deep breath.

"Well," says Mitchell. "That was comprehensive."

"We're here, by the way," says George.

It is, to be fair, indeed a nice restaurant. "You said you liked Italian once," says George, by way of explanation, when they're sat down; Mitchell nods approvingly as he looks around. There are candles and unidentifiable slightly weird-looking flowers and soft strains of stringed instruments from a tannoy somewhere, and Mitchell leans back in his chair, and slots into the scene bizarrely well.

* 

"It's mad," says George, abruptly, focussing on hacking a slice out of his pizza, "that you're so old."

"Yes," says Mitchell, eventually, for want of a better reply. "Well, not really, from my point of view. I've got used to it."

"I can't imagine not being excited about a birthday," says George. "Not that mine were ever worth getting all that excited about. But that's not the point of the excitement, is it, really."

Mitchell pauses, contemplative. "No," he concedes, "I suppose it isn't."

"When was the last time you got excited?"

"About a birthday?"

"Yeah."

"I don't know," says Mitchell, and narrows his eyes, carefully transferring spaghetti from fork to mouth, hollowing his cheeks to suck it in. George watches, momentarily transfixed by the other end of the spaghetti, zipping round and round the fork as it uncoils. "Not excited, as such, but I remember enjoying them."

"Sorry, what?"

"Birthdays. Enjoying birthdays."

"Oh, yeah. Yeah. Were they good, then? What did you do?"

"Some of them were. But – well, there really were an awful lot of them. I don't know where to start."

"Fine," says George, absent-mindedly gesturing with a hand containing a slice of pizza; an olive goes flying. "Memorable numbers. You must've done something good for a hundred. Eighty-eight? Two fat ladies? Sixty-nine, then."

"Mm," says Mitchell, and swallows. "See, I liked that one mainly because it's so rare for a sixty-nine-year-old to actually appreciate the age fully."

"Well, that's one advantage, I suppose," says George. "How did you celebrate?"

"Appropriately."

"Good," says George, "er, good."

"A hundred," continues Mitchell, thoughtfully, "I do remember doing something for a hundred. Nineteen eighty-seven. What a year; all the decades, all the years, all the wars and governments and films and music, and the year I turn a hundred it was just _Livin' On A Prayer_ , god, all the time." He smiles in a way that George decides to classify as 'ruefully amused'. "I said it was my twenty-fifth, I think, pretended to be looking back on a quarter of a century instead of a whole one. And then we got pissed," he says, and rubs the side of his jaw, mouth open, calling up a memory he hasn't needed for years, "and I think I threw up in somebody's handbag. Wait, I did!" He looks positively delighted. "Yeah, I did, because it was some girl I didn't really know, and she chased me round and round the outside of this bar we were in, angry as you like, and we were both too far gone to realise how much like a cartoon we must've looked."

George is grinning by this point, both of them laughing, until George says, "Blimey, and I was – I must have been _five_."

"And just starting _War And Peace_ , presumably."

"Yeah, yeah."

"So, what about you?"

"What do you mean?"

"You turned six that year, then. Was it good?"

"Oh," says George. He scratches his head. "All right, I think. Hang on, I do remember – I _do_ , because I got my first bike. Oh my god, that bike! It was red," he adds, enthusiastically, "bright red, fantastic, and it had a horn instead of a bell. Who buys a horn instead of a bell? But I didn't care." He blinks, looks sheepishly at his plate. "Not quite like looking back over a century, admittedly."

Mitchell grins at him, and George thinks it might be a little bit less sardonic than usual. "But it sounds like you had an equally good time."

* 

An hour later, George thinks he may have consumed more wine than he would usually choose to; and he's not entirely sure how that happened, but he thinks he might have got slightly distracted by the selection of cakes on the dessert menu, and maybe that had something to do with it.

"You've been very good to me," he says to Mitchell, seriously, and pats him a little too hard on the arm. Mitchell is eating sorbet.

"I thought you were paying," says Mitchell.

"No, no. No, I mean, I am. I'm not talking about that." George frowns a little with concentration. "I like the flat, and I like that you want to eat biscuits on the sofa with me." No, that wasn't quite what he was trying to get across. Try again. "I mean – I didn't think I'd find anyone to help, for a long time. I thought my life was over, you know. Only not, because it wasn't, I was still alive, but you know what I mean. Do you know what I mean? You're a good friend." He nods to emphasise his point, and glances down. "Should I take my hand off your arm?"

"Only if you want to. It might be quite funny if you leave it there while I'm trying to put the spoon in my mouth."

George considers this for a moment, and then takes his hand away.

"Shame," says Mitchell, and carries on eating. "You're not bad yourself, you know, by the way. It's nice to be able to be honest with someone."

"Absolutely," says George. He thinks about banging his fist on the table, but it is a very nice restaurant, and it might upset the other customers. "Absolutely," he says, again, to make up for it.

"So," says Mitchell, tapping the tip of the spoon against his bottom lip, "are you really going to grow vegetables?"

"Yes," says George. "We should sort that out, actually. Do you know where to buy seeds?"

"Do I look like someone that buys a lot of seeds?"

"I don't know," says George, "you're very slightly fuzzy, to be honest." He takes his glasses off and cleans them on his shirt. "That's better." And then, peering intently at Mitchell: "No, you don't, really. Never mind; I'll find out. What's your favourite vegetable?"

"Aubergine."

"No-one's ever given that answer before."

"What, do you ask a lot of people?"

"I'll grow you aubergines," says George, with an air of finality.

"Oh," says Mitchell. "Thanks."

* 

It takes them a little longer to get back home than it did to get to the restaurant, although people always say return journeys feel quicker; but then a lot of what people say is wrong. Annie is waiting up for them with eleven cups of tea.

"Some of them are still hot," she says, cheerfully, when Mitchell walks into the kitchen, "but I can't remember which ones." And then: "Did you have a nice time?"

"Yeah, it was good, actually," says Mitchell. "Really good. Has this one got sugar in it?"

"I think so. Might be able to come with you next year, who knows. Ooh, hi, George! Some of them are still hot – "

"So I heard. Get up to anything good while we were out?"

"Pretty average. Watched a bit of TV."

"Did you tape the stuff I circled?" asks George, busy feeling the sides of the mugs in search of hot porcelain.

"Of course. But this is all really boring; tell me about your evening! How was your date?"

"It wasn't a _date_ ," says George.

"Hmm," says Mitchell, and puts his head to one side, considering. "You did get a bit emotional on me, though."

"Did he?" says Annie.

"I didn't get emotional."

"Were there candles?" says Annie.

"Yes," says Mitchell, "and funny almost-flowers in vases."

"That's definitely a date."

"Look, it wasn't a date," says George, and then, "Oh god, this is Bovril," and spits it into the sink.

"Oh, I forgot about that one," says Annie. "Sorry."

"Why do we even have Bovril?" says George. "Who likes it?"

"Me," says Mitchell.

"You're weird, you know that?"

"You're the one who thinks we didn't go on a date."

"We _didn't_."

Annie laughs, and George goes into the living room.

"George," says Mitchell, "George, I'm winding you up."

"I know," says George, sitting down heavily, and rests his head on the back of the sofa, staring at the ceiling.

*

When Annie first met Mitchell and George, the concept of knowing anybody was pretty much the most exciting thing to have happened for a year. It still is, to be honest; but after the first couple of weeks, during which she'd ply them with questions when she was alone with either of them – birth, childhood, school, favourite band, favourite colour favourite book favourite type of chocolate favourite 3D shape – after those first weeks were over, and she was a bit more settled, she began to realise that she probably knew more about them than they knew about each other. Not that the things she knew would necessarily interest them: Mitchell would probably be perfectly happy never knowing that George liked icosahedrons, and George would probably do fine without the knowledge that Mitchell picked the pyramid. Well, actually, George probably _would_ be quite interested, but that isn't the point. Annie ended up with this big, complete, tangled mass of information that was Mitchell, and one that was George; and, to some degree, through extrapolation, a more complex one that was Mitchell  & George, the supernatural double act.

And that intrigues her, the sequence of events that had somehow thrown a vampire and a werewolf into a bizarre, co-dependent relationship; one which they seem to insist on defining in terms of biscuits and who's controlling the TV remote, rather than confronting the bits where they turn into animals or bite people in the neck.

Sometimes, Annie finds George and Mitchell so odd that she almost forgets to remember she's a ghost.

* 

Annie is sitting cross-legged on the sideboard in the kitchen, head propped on one hand, watching Mitchell butter toast. She can see him getting bits of marmalade in the tub, and she thinks it's nice to be reminded that there are, admittedly, a few things she doesn't miss about eating.

"Mitchell, can I ask you a question?"

"Sure."

"Do you think George fancies you?"

Mitchell barely looks up. "Well, obviously."

" _Really_?" says Annie, faintly amazed. "How do you know?"

"Everyone fancies me," says Mitchell, shrugging. "It's easier to take that as a default, and then occasionally discover the people who don't."

" _I_ don't fancy you."

"Yeah," says Mitchell, "you do."

"All right, a bit."

"See?" says Mitchell, and grins. He puts the lid back on the butter, picks up the plate of toast, and moves towards the door; and then stops, and turns round. "But that's not the interesting bit, then, is it, because it doesn't mean anything. You might fancy your friend's friend, or someone behind a bar, or someone off TV, but it's just something you register occasionally, right? A pleasant distraction from whatever you're doing."

"Yeah, I suppose," says Annie.

Mitchell rubs the back of his head, opens his mouth, and then closes it again.

"What?"

"Nothing."

* 

Mitchell and George share the minimally interesting characteristic of being neither overly tactile nor particularly adverse to touch; which means, for example, that they don't tend to walk with arms slung around each other, but that they are both quite happy with Mitchell's decision to adopt George's lap as a frequent foot-rest.

This is why Mitchell is surprised when George starts twitching when he touches him.

"You're twitching when I touch you," says Mitchell, because he's never seen the point of beating about the bush.

"No I'm not," says George. He grabs Mitchell's hand and places it on his own shoulder, to demonstrate, and gives it a pat. "See?"

"Hmm," agrees Mitchell, and puts his hand back in his pocket. "It must only be when you're not expecting it."

"Well, that sounds like human motor responses to me," says George.

Later, in the kitchen, both cooking separately ("cooking" in the loosest possible terms: a sandwich and some cereal, respectively), Mitchell has to reach over George's shoulder from behind him to get a bowl from the cupboard, and most of his front leans against George's back in the process. It's kind of on purpose, but not exactly; and George twitches violently enough to be halfway to a small spasm. Mitchell peers round to see his face, and George turns his head to meet him. He is quite red.

Mitchell lowers his head and looks at George from under his brow, and says, "What?"

"You've got marmalade in the butter," says George, and then he clears his throat and moves away to the fridge.

*

On the Richard & Judy Book Club, they're extolling the virtues of a modern re-imagining of _Dracula_. Mitchell is watching because he enjoys exercising his well-developed sense of irony. George is watching because he likes Richard and Judy.

"So, I've been thinking," says Mitchell, and then stops.

"Er," says George, "Good?"

"No, that was a pause for effect," says Mitchell. "I haven't finished yet. You're meant to look intrigued, or maybe ask what I've been thinking about."

"Oh. What have you been thinking about, Mitchell?"

Mitchell nods approvingly, and starts again from the beginning. "So, I've been thinking we should go on a date," he says. "You know," he adds, for no particular reason.

George glances at him briefly, rolls his eyes, and turns back to the TV. "You mean you want another meal out of me?"

"No," says Mitchell, and then, "Well, actually, maybe. But I mean it."

George laughs.

"No. George."

"Wait," says George, "what?"

"Well, you're never going to ask, are you?"

For a moment, George doesn't say anything. Mitchell doesn't say anything either, although it's not his turn, so that's fair enough.

("Not only that, but it's a biting commentary on today's social situation," interrupts Richard Madeley, briefly.)

Then there is another moment where George looks at Mitchell, and frowns a little bit; and Mitchell raises his eyebrows in question, and George thinks: Oh. He's not joking.

And George says, "Okay."


End file.
